Felicity
by Mango Schmango
Summary: Margaret/Thornton oneshot. Sometimes words are superfluous. Sometimes it is actions that speak volumes instead of trite sentiments.


_**Felicity**_

**Disclaimer: Everything belongs to the genius of Elizabeth Gaskell. **

Margaret Thornton felt stifled. The burning fireplace overheated the grand dining room of her cousin, Edith Lennox, and Edith's guests were vain, empty or bland. Only the presence of Henry Lennox rose the conversation from complete tedium. Margaret's eyes surreptitiously drifted to the empty seat opposite her where her husband, John, was supposed to be seated.

He had not been able to travel with her to London at the beginning the week because there were some important investor meetings that he could not evade. Thus, he was taking the afternoon train from Milton, and was supposed to have arrived at seven o'clock exactly. Yet, it was now half-past eight and the main meal was being served.

Margaret was not sure how much more she could bear of listening to the petty trivialities of Edith's friend, Maria Hatfield, who was seated next to her, and acted liked accidentally tearing her Venetian lace handkerchief the other week was the equivalent of losing a dear child; or the loud bluster of Maria's husband, Thomas, who was a rising parliamentary man, and droned on about the fine cigars and port at his regular men's club.

Even though Margaret had been away from Milton for less than a week, she already acutely missed the company at the dinner parties that Marlborough Mills held. Granted, Margaret did not agree with, or like, some of her husband's fellow Masters such as Slickson, but the conversation was always stimulating. She loved hearing the debates about how a mill should be run—morality versus economics—that always rang at the table, and it always gave her a secret pleasure to watch John eloquently articulate his views with a quiet, commanding voice. John did not need to resort to the drunken bravado of Watson, and Margaret knew that his fellow Masters respected John all the more for his understated charisma, level-headedness and authority—as well as the glimmer of ironic humour and the smile that he occasionally showed to his companions, and it was always to John they deferred if a crisis occurred.

Margaret noticed Henry observing her with an ironic twist of his lips, and she knew that he could sense her restlessness and lethargy. Suddenly the dining room door opened, and a servant announced with a certain disdain: 'Mr Thornton has arrived."

Margaret's cheeks flushed and her heart filled with joy at the sight of him entering the room without a sense of inferiority to these wealthy Londoners. His very body language proclaimed that he was secure in himself, and that he had the pride and the intelligence to walk among these men as an equal.

John's eyes immediately sought Margaret's own, and they exchanged a quick, intimate look that was worth more to Margaret than some grandiose declaration. The cheery Captain Lennox heartily greeted John while Henry was somewhat reserved but did not lack in courtesy. John graciously made his respects to Aunt Shaw and Edith (who still held some resentment that he, not Henry, married Margaret), and he did not have the chance to even take a sip of some port before Hatfield began plying him with questions about cotton in a tone that was heavily laced with disdain.

Margaret bridled at Hatfield's condescending remark about wanting to 'dabble' in cotton—as if running a cotton mill was somehow a light jaunt in the countryside!

"I doubt that a rising parliamentary man such as yourself would have the time to 'dabble' in cotton. It is a full-time occupation, as my wife will attest. Of course, if you don't mind losing half your savings because you did not mind remaining ignorant of the efficient running of the mill, then 'dabble' to your heart's content."

Hatfield narrowed his eyes, not sure if Thornton was mocking him or not. It was damned difficult, because Thornton's face was poker face straight—though Hatfield thought he detected a glimmer of amusement flicker through Thornton's dark eyes like a spark on an inky night. Hatfield's eyes then travelled to Thornton's wife. The expression in her eyes reminded Hatfield of a tigress waiting to spring if her mate was threatened.

"The running of the mill, Mr. Hatfield, is an not an idle gentleman's game. My husband did not get to where he was by passing his days in a gentlemen's saloon," said Margaret in a clear voice, her eyes unwavering from his.

Hatfield nearly choked on his port. "Mrs. Thornton, I was not making a slight about your husband's—"

"I completely comprehended your insinuations, sir. I'm no fool."

"Margaret!" exclaimed Aunt Shaw.

Hatfield flushed with annoyance and turned his attention to Thornton. "If I were you, Mr. Thornton, I'd reign in your wife's tongue."

"I don't think it's any of your concern on how I conduct my relations with my wife, do you?" asked Thornton in a deceptively benign voice even though his eyes were steely.

"Mr. Thornton, your wife has insulted my integrity and—"

"Messrs Thornton and Hatfield, I think we can leave these tense arguments to another setting where the blood will be easier to erase than here in the sitting room where my sister-in-law has fine carpet," interceded Henry.

"Honestly, Margaret," complained Edith, "you're sometimes so very hot-blooded. Why can't you apologise to Mr. Hatfield for casting unfair aspersions on him?"

"I think we can leave this subject well alone, my love," soothed Captain Lennox, who heartily disliked confrontations of any kind. "I agree with Henry in this one."

Edith pouted but appeared partly mollified when Captain Lennox, who was at the head of the table, reached over and clasped his wife's hand and rose it to his lips for a courtly kiss. Aunt Shaw then quickly engaged the Hatfields in a conversation regarding the merits of muslin.

Margaret's eyes flickered to Thornton, and she caught his burning look of pride at her. Heat flooded her cheeks and she could not help a small smile grace her face. She wondered if this pleasing sensation would always occur from such a simple mark of her husband's love and esteem for her. Margaret then averted her eyes from him to compose herself lest anyone should observe her displaying unseemly emotion.

* * *

Sometime later, after the draining ceremony of small talk and other frivolities with her aunt, cousin and Maria Hatfield, Margaret was able to retire to bed. Margaret felt a headache forming and was fatigued from presenting a calm front for the remainder of the evening. Her husband was still in Captain Lennox's smoking room, and she sensed he would not be up for sometime, for she knew that he was trying to forge a genuine relationship of respect with Henry for her sake.

Dixon was on hand to help her out of her dress and into her French lace nightgown (an extravagant item given to her by Edith), but Margaret was not in an engaging mood and just wanted some solitude. Thus, she quietly dismissed Dixon with a sincere apology and started to slowly brush her chestnut hair by herself.

A light knock sounded at the door. Margaret, thinking it was Dixon, called out: 'I'm fine, Dixon. You retire for the night as you've had a strenuous day. Thank-you for your aid."

"I'm certainly not your Dixon," came John's amused voice, as he quietly opened the door and stepped inside.

Margaret continued to brush her hair but the intensity of her gaze that was reflected in the mirror conveyed to John her agitation and unease. At first he did not speak. He merely crossed the threshold of their room and gently took the brush from her.

"May I?" he murmured.

Margaret mutely nodded her assent.

His brushstrokes were languorously slow and he did not pull her hair at all. Her eyes slipped shut, some of her tension seeping from her body.

"You were a tigress tonight, my love. I'm most fortunate to have a wife who guards me so fiercely," he said softly.

Her eyes opened. "That man was insufferable. I'll have no man—or woman, for that matter—unjustly denigrate your character or work."

His spare hand lightly caressed her cheek, their eyes meeting in the mirror. He did not reply.

"Are you disappointed with me?" asked Margaret.

"Do my actions at this moment seem like those of a displeased husband?" he whispered, bending down to press a chaste yet lingering kiss on the swell of her breasts.

"It seems not," she breathed.

"Margaret…when I saw your vigorous spirit defending me tonight, I immediately thought of that day of the strike when you shielded me from the rioters with your beautiful arms around my neck."

Margaret smiled softly. "You know I would do that again, my love."

"You are a Boadicea."

"You flatter me."

Thornton knelt down beside her so that they were on equal eye level. "Hardly. When I looked upon Maria Hatfield tonight, I thought would she place herself in harm's way to protect her husband? Would she stand by him if he became a ruined man? And a resounding 'no' came back to me on all accounts. Then I gazed upon you and was reaffirmed on how blessed I am to have you as my wife, confidante and lover."

Margaret was positively radiant at his words that were like a balm upon her spirit. Thornton rarely waxed lyrical, so when he did, she treasured it even more. She leaned her forehead against his, her eyes fluttering shut. "You are my life, John. You surely must know that by now."

"And you are mine," he simply replied.

Margaret was struck with the need to be close with him. Not just spiritually, but together in all their glorious bodily form. To reassure herself that he was just as consumed by her as she was by him. She knew it was not exactly ladylike to take such obvious pleasure in the close physical proximity of her husband, but the tangible pleasure that was coursing between them could hardly be denied. It had been there since they first met—though she had been blind to it at first. When she had heedlessly thrown her arms around him at the riots to protect him, there was a violence and an untutored emotion that had never gripped her before.

They were both opinionated, bold and passionate people, and when they made love, it was not just heady intoxication and the wonder of each other in their purest bodily form, but also a communion of sorts between two matching souls. This was when they were laid bare to each other, where all their vulnerabilities, their fragilities and most ungovernable feelings were revealed and embraced.

"Come to bed," she murmured in his ear.

He did not reply. Instead, he kissed her lingeringly. He then stood up and held out his hand. She mutely and unquestioningly placed her hand in his, staring at each other unwaveringly. She then removed her hand from his and placed both her arms around his neck—just like that day of the riots—her warm breath on his face.

He immediately kissed her. This time it was more heated and passionate. His arms tightened around her waist and she was on the very tips of her toes. He half lifted her off the ground in his fervor. Wordlessly, they somehow managed to shift to the bed still entwined together.

"I love you," he raggedly uttered as they kissed each other in an almost desperate fever as if they had been separated for months instead of a mere week.

Margaret hardly needed to voice her answer. Her affirmation was burning brightly in her eyes like a lantern on a dark night. The overpowering emotion in her eyes was enough for him to gauge that she wholly reciprocated his feelings with an equal intensity and ardour—as if he could ever doubt that.

Neither of them needed any further words.

Being together was all they could ask for.

**The End. **


End file.
